


proof of life

by IrisParry



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Armitage Hux: Secretly Disgusting, Content note: intentional self injury see end notes for more info, Established Relationship, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 12:16:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8372005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrisParry/pseuds/IrisParry
Summary: Ren is far from the Finalizer, at an outpost with unreliable communications. He has been there for almost a month, and even optimistic forecasts have him there for another. Hux has reviewed the data, analysed the evidence. He does not want to think anymore.





	

General Hux wakes before his alarm and rises without hesitation. He removes and folds his pyjamas, the day’s schedule cycling through his mind. He relieves himself and takes a shower. He uses water, a choice that is open to him, reaches for standard issue bathing products. The scent barely registers anymore. It is like the hum of the Finalizer’s engines, the synchronised clatter of boots in the corridors, institutional background noise. He tries to imagine what it is like to be new to these things, to notice them all, for each to be distinct and evocative on their own. He turns the water heat up and lathers again. He can’t tell if the scent lingers on his skin.

The undershirt still has a crease folded in the middle, from how it was packed. Fresh and unworn, it is stark white next to the rest of the black ones in the drawer, next to his shorts when he pulls it on. It makes his skin look different. Black creates a striking contrast, makes a blank canvas of him, but bleached cotton draws the eyes to the smattering of light brown freckles, roughened skin at the elbows, the blue of his veins.  

Hux takes breakfast in his quarters today, sits at his desk in his underclothes. A few crumbs might escape, and he does not want to soil his uniform. He sits back in his chair when he is finished eating, sips his caf, and if he is a little careless, if a drop slides down the side of his cup, it is no matter.

This is the good caf, from a carefully guarded personal store. The last time he drank it Kylo Ren lay in his bed and watched him brew it with the distiller. When it was ready, Ren held his cup in both of his big hands, brought it to his face and breathed deeply, eyes closed behind the steam.

Hux finishes dressing, the undershirt a vanishing white peak beneath his usual dark tunic. He smooths back his hair, tugs on his gloves. In the mirror, nothing is out of place: clean lines, clear eyes, just like all the posters and the holos.

 

_ >I hate this. _

_ >Don’t start. I didn’t mean the mission.  _

_ >I mean _

_ >you know what I mean _

 

Sharp salutes greet Hux on his way through the corridors. The morning briefing proceeds according to schedule. Hux’s officers are immaculate. They watch him, listen closely, make the occasional note, speak when spoken to. When they ask questions, Hux can give them answers. He has the facts at his command, his mind scanning lightning-quick, evaluating possibilities, making decisions. He drinks from an oily cup of terrible caf, concealing grimaces with the ease of long practice. 

New reports from the outpost are in. Few troops have been lost - and none of the Knights of Ren among them - though there has been more heavy fighting. The situation is delicate, and Hux has no wish to simply bludgeon the populace into submission. Fear of the Knights will ultimately be more effective than unleashing their full force straight away. Ren understands this, of course. Regular comms are still being re-established, and are likely to remain patchy over the next few cycles. Hux runs through a number of potential fixes with a stuttering technician, hashing out resource diversions with the relevant departments. Resupply for the outpost is a top priority, and the officer group discusses the logistics of the next air drop.

Hux makes his way to the hangar after the briefing, arriving with four minutes to spare. On board the shuttle, Hux changes into spiked snow boots, pulls on an insulated overcoat with long padded panels. His greatcoat will not be sufficient down on the ice planet, and he would lose his hat in a second in the biting winds. The protective gear is heavy, and a tight fit over his uniform. Before he has even donned the breather mask or turned on the heating pack he can feel sweat start to prickle.

Hux walks the site at a brisk pace. He is well-prepared, does not need to be led through the basics of the excavations and soil testing, and does not want to keep the teams from work for long. They stand at attention as he approaches, rattle off their reports and answers to his questions smartly. Everything is proceeding in line with the initial projections: no surprises unearthed, no sloppiness revealed.

The sun is high and bright in a clear sky. Beneath his layers Hux feels warm and clammy. His breathing seems loud inside the mask. Ren has been to this planet, walked its surface in his own mask. His scouting report had been the one that really mattered. Hux wonders if he accepted an overcoat or shivered beneath the dark strata of his robes.

 

_ >can’t talk to you, can’t see you. _

_ >cant even message in real time. _

_ >I get a reply and who knows when you wrote it _

_ >it doesn’t mean you’re not dead _

 

When he boards the shuttle again Hux is hot, hot and wet beneath his arms, between his legs, at the crooks of his knees and elbows. His undershirt clings as he moves, struggling out of the cold weather gear, a damp sheen of sweat all over him. His pulse thumps at the side of his neck. Ren likes to press his face there to feel it, mouth at it. Hux remembers Ren’s chest slippery against his back, the way Ren’s hair clumped in lank, curling strands that dripped onto the sheets. When he was gone, Hux pulled the bedclothes around himself, turned his face into the pillow and still felt completely surrounded by Ren, the sour animal reek of him. 

Hux adjusts his uniform, smooths out creases where the heavy overcoat has sat, runs a hand over his hair to make sure it remains in place. For the rest of the journey back to the Finalizer he records observations on his datapad, reviews the reports from the ground teams. He presses the back of his hand to his cheek. Kylo Ren once told him he looked good flushed. 

Hux updates the relevant officers in a final briefing before the end of his shift. He summarises the reports, shows some of the holos of the site, details revisions to the timetables. When he is finished, they snap their heels together and salute, filing out in an orderly line. A droid trundles about the room collecting cups and stray papers, dusting off the surfaces. When it leaves, Hux after it, it is as if nobody has been there.

By the time he returns to his quarters, Hux has sweated through to dampen the underarms of his tunic. He unfastens it with quick fingers, drops it to the floor as he makes his way to the mirror. 

The undershirt is rumpled but still startling white - Hux looks scrubbed-pink against it, shiny and flustered. But Ren once told him he looked good flushed, like he was human after all, a creature of flesh and blood. Hux had struck him, one cheek then the other, made him blush to match. Hux had not wanted words then.

Dark brown spatters dot the undershirt about halfway down, he notices, drops of caf he managed to spill in the morning. They have been there all day, so they will likely stain. They are small things, though, only visible on close examination. There is something sad and embarrassing about them.

Hux pours a drink and brings it back to the mirror, gulps at it until he’s gasping, wine coursing out of the corners of his mouth. It drips off his chin, runs down his neck. The last time he spilled wine, it was a few drops on his belly as he lay propped against a pillow. Ren leaned over and lapped them up, so Hux tipped the glass again, made a mess of himself and laughed beneath Ren’s obedient tongue, laughed and it was so unlike him. All that mattered was how it felt. How he liked it and wanted more, how Ren liked it - not the wine itself, so much, Hux’s tastes run a little too dry for him, but he liked it warm from Hux’s body. Ren dipped his fingers in the glass and painted Hux with it, dragged them or held them dripping over him. When the glass fell empty and forgotten from Hux’s trembling hand, Ren’s licks and kisses grew teeth.

The sheets were ruined, he remembers, while he watches himself drain the glass. He palms at the front of his trousers. The wine has spread along his neckline, trickled down his chest at the dip of his sternum, and it soaks up into the fabric from his skin. He hadn’t cared about the sheets, about anything but Ren, and he’d wanted him to just keep going, bite down, tear at his throat. He wants to sweat and cry out and come and bleed and for Ren to be there, to see and taste and take such pleasure in it. Ren has been at the outpost for almost a month. Even optimistic forecasts have him there for another. Hux has reviewed the data, analysed the evidence. He does not want to think anymore.

 

_ >Write to me _

_ >Not like this, I want _

_ >something you’ve touched _

 

Hux has not carried a blade in years, but for a long time he kept this one sharp. Like a conscientious cadet, a good boy. It was part of his daily routine at the academy, a habit that stuck long after he had risen above needing such a weapon. Nobody gets close enough to the General for this mode of defence. A few have tried, of course, the Resistance and those within the Order who fancied themselves his rivals. Hux has spun a dense web of protection about himself, troops with the finest training, officers with the utmost loyalty. The most advanced security systems, technology he personally designed. He made himself a fortress, and will never have a need to put his knife between someone's ribs. Nobody gets close enough. Nobody but Ren.

Hux turns his palm up, arm outstretched, the skin dirty-pale under the 'fresher lighting. Even now, with his eyes wild and chest heaving, sticky with sweat and wine, some part of him pulls away from the wrist, the inner elbow. He pushes the tip of the blade into the middle of his forearm, breathing out slowly through his nose. A bead of bright red blood swells at the point.

Hux draws the knife across, swift and shallow but enough to make the welling blood spill over, the adrenaline surge through him. He gasps, lets the knife clatter to the floor. His head rings, with wine and pain and desperate longing. Blood oozes from his clenched fist, gathering and dripping off his knuckles, and Hux watches it in delirious slow motion, panting through the pain. The wound will soon close even without dressing. If Ren were here, he would have him put his mouth to it, his tongue, open it up again and again. He puts his palm to his belly, wipes his hand down the ruined undershirt in five livid red streaks.

Hux opens his trousers with the other hand, staggering backwards against the wall. Ren said he was human after all, a creature of flesh and blood. He called him an animal, but they were just words. Here is Hux’s proof. He is standing in a 'fresher, still in his boots, trousers yanked open because he could not wait to get a hand on himself, because all his discipline crumbles so easily. Because he needs it so badly.

 

_ >i didn't think it would be like this _

_ >i think i'm going mad _

_ >tell me you are _

 

Hux strokes his cock and thinks of Ren, of Ren being here, on his knees and lapping at Hux's bloody fingers. He would wait, he would take only what he was given, until it was too much for both of them and he would have to have Hux's cock, and they would whimper in relief as he swallowed him down. Hux groans, pumping his fist faster: no finesse, no elegant, drawn-out pleasure. He wants to come. In the mirror he is a desperate mess, gritted teeth and filthy clothes, bloody hand soiling the shirt he has sweated in all day beneath his uniform.  _ A little animal, underneath that perfect uniform.  _ Ren had been so thrilled to discover it, and it still excites Hux beyond reason, to be that, to be wanted for that, to be a body. Hux grips tighter with both fists, grasping convulsively at his shirt, squeezing his cock, and brings himself over the edge, grunting and shuddering and curling in on himself. 

Hux falls back against the wall, ears ringing and breath stuttering. He opens his eyes, though he is unsure when he closed them, and holds up both his hands. The left is almost rubbed clean of blood, but it has seeped into each fine line of his palm and fingertips; the right is red from effort, dripping with his come. He drags them both hard down his shirt, wiping them off. The undershirt is sticking to him, soaked beneath his arms with fresh ripe-smelling sweat, streaked and splotched all over with shades of red. There are dots of fingermarks where he cannot remember pinching at his nipple with his bloody hand. It stinks. He grabs the hem and pulls it down, cleans himself off with an untouched patch of the fabric.

Hux pushes off the wall with a sigh. He puts his boots aside for cleaning and disposes of his trousers down the laundry chute. He should see to his arm. It stings, in a less pleasant way now. Ren claims to hate cigarras, but Hux lights one anyway, holds it in trembling fingers. He suspects Ren is secretly pleased when he reaches for one afterwards, as if it is a mark of accomplishment.

A droid will clean the blood off the floor in the morning.

 

_ >hux _

_ >i’ve read it a hundred times i _

_ >i just _

_ >it’s not enough _

 

General Hux wakes before his alarm and rises without hesitation. He removes his damp, crusted undershirt and folds it briskly, rolls it and stuffs it into the capsule while it is still warm from his body. He seals the container and sets it to unlock with fingerprint ident. He relieves himself, uses the sanistream and dresses, quickly though with no less care than usual. He smooths back his hair, tugs on his gloves. In the mirror, nothing is out of place: clean lines, clear eyes, just like all the posters, the holos.

Sharp salutes greet Hux on his way through the corridors. At the hangar, a freighter is being stocked for the outpost, ready for scheduled departure at 0600. He hands the sealed capsule to the supervising officer with orders to ensure it is among the goods in the drop, and that it is marked for Kylo Ren’s personal attention.

Hux has fourteen minutes to spare before the morning briefing, and leaves the hangar at a smart pace. He can still take breakfast at the officer’s mess if he hurries. He hurries, imagines himself keeping stride with Ren, and feels himself start to sweat.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Note re intentional self-injury: Hux cuts his arm with a knife, shallowly but enough to bleed, and smears the blood on his clothing.
> 
> This fic happened because I listen to the [Pixies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SzoAKLUTNtc) way too much, including when I am attempting to write or plan other kylux fics I wanted to have finished ages ago. thanks to [jonstarks](http://jonstarks.tumblr.com) for reading and advising.
> 
>  
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](http://irisparry.tumblr.com). probably right now. come talk to me about hux.


End file.
